Becoming Real
by Caidyn
Summary: John's sudden death leaves Sherlock devastated and alone with the child he and John had adopted. DI Lestrade steps in to try and help the pair out in their time of grieving. Reviews are always welcome.
1. Chapter 1

**Note:**

I do not own these lovely characters I'm writing about and Moffat won't let me own BBC's Sherlock no matter how much I beg and plead and promise to throw the characters off of buildings.

The title isn't mind as well. I would like to thank the person for it but I can't put their URL nor can I put the link to the quote that she gave me for the title. So all I can really say is thank you so much for giving me a lovely title based off of a quote from the Velveteen Rabbit. Since I can't put more than that please message me if you want to know who the amazing person is that's responsible for supplying me with these amazing things.

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So many times they had talked about it, always planning for the what-if's as John had called them. Such as who call, where he'd get buried, and what to do after everything got finished, such as moving on for the sake of Sherlock's sanity as well as Hamish's. Never in his life had the detective actually thought it would happen, that his husband, the man he'd said he'd spend the rest of his life with, would be gone. The news had been delivered to him at 8:37 in the morning. Two men had been let up by Mrs. Hudson - the woman had thought it had been a case for him - and right away he had known it had something far less delightful than that from the stiff posture and somber look on their faces.

"I'm so sorry," the first had said, a genuine look of sadness crossing his face for a brief second.

"There's nothing we can bring back to bury," the other had explained.

"You should be honored. He saved many people by doing at he did," the first had added on.

With another apology they had seen themselves out for Sherlock felt too weak to stand up do it himself. The nicely dressed soldiers seemed used to the reaction, somewhat grateful as well seeing that he hadn't broken down into a fit of tears. Silence filled the flat and the hole quickly forming in his chest. Plans would have to be put in place with a calm mind, not one crowded by grief. Calm was filling him, but the kind that came before a storm.

Hamish would have to be told - Hamish Watson-Holmes, their four-year old son they had adopted around their third anniversary as a freshly born and oh-so perfect. Their son that was still young enough to call John, Daddy and Sherlock, Papa, yet smart enough to be placed in primary school not nursery school like most children would be at his age, happily learning shapes, colors, and writing, something their little boy had begun to master at the age of two.

Hamish was going to be devastated.

With a shaky hand Sherlock pulled out his phone, only knowing one number that he could text for  
anything. Lestrade. The DI had been good friends with John, someone who came over to their house for dinner and had been John's best man their wedding. Sherlock trusted the man because John had truly made it so.

I need you to pick Hamish up from school. -SH

Why? What's going on? GL

It was rare for Sherlock to pull Hamish out of school; he saw school as important since it was something that was going to get his son a good job at some time in the future. John had always told him he was stupid to think ahead that far in life when Hamish was four - Bloody four! he would have exclaimed - and did have his whole life ahead of him. That had been one thing they had fought about more than they wanted to admit to each other. He allowed a sigh, feeling his phone vibrate again as he sat in his chair. There was no will power in him to pick it up, his hand heavier than anything he had ever lifted in his life. The motivation to even do a simple task was weighing him down more than he could have ever imagined. But, as always, he found a way to do the impossible - no, the improbable.

Sherlock, are you in trouble? GL  
I'm going to pick Hamish up but explain to me, alright? Simple yes or no will work fine. GL

Yes. I'll tell you. -SH

Lestrade deserved that after all. They had worked together since had been a pretentious teen, waltzing in on crime scenes unannounced and sometimes high as a kite when going on. Only way he had been able to do what he had planned to do since the age of thirteen was kick his habit. And he had... mainly. Some relapses but nothing as bad as it had been before. Since he and John had married he hadn't taken it. Seven years sober. According to Lestrade he was still pretentious but at least got announced now when he came on, which people still didn't enjoy very much.

Not that it mattered now.

He tossed his phone in the direction of the couch so not to worry about it, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees and hands over his face, hiding himself from the world around him. It was all too loud with the silence, eating and picking at him, forcing him to acknowledge more than he already had that the man he loved had died in some foreign country defending it for a shit war that had no real reason besides gas. He was going to punch Mycroft for that one upon their next meeting. John had died, not in his arms, but throwing his body over a damn bomb and having everything of him obliterated, down to the dog tags. All they had to go off of was the people who had seen his last heroic act.

"God damn your hero complex," he said, more like shouted, to himself with a sharp movement of his hand turning into a fist to connect with the arm of his chair in a hammer strike.

One hand still remained over his face to hide it from prying eyes as tears prickled in them to their own accord. By the time Hamish and Lestrade arrived they'd be bloodshot either from his crying or from holding it in for too long. He knew Lestrade would go to the worst - another relapse - to ignore the idea that John Watson had died. The position he was in stayed that way until he heard the door open from below and a cheery greeting from Mrs. Hudson while Hamish bounded up the stairs, probably extremely excited that he was getting out of school for the rest of the day, not to mention until the funeral was planned out and over.

Sherlock saw Hamish and knew that his easy assumptions of his son's character had been correct. A bright and happy smile was plastered on his face, lighting up his pale features that was only accented by the black hair that sat atop his head in a mop of hair. Clothes were perfectly picked out and definitely not appropriate for the weather with how thin they were, something John would have scolded him for. The small hands were clutched around the straps of his bag in an excited style until his son's deep blue eyes met his face and their eyes connected. An instant understanding was forged and the smile, his son's beautiful smile, disappeared in a flash.

"Papa, what's going on?"

Their eyes stayed locked as he just looked at his little boy. Now w was he going to be able to lie to him, not even for a moment. Hamish pulled his backpack off, letting it drop to the ground without a car for what was inside it like he usually would have done. The boy went to his father and climbed up on top of his lap, already nestling into him out of the new anticipated bad news.

Downstairs he heard Lestrade milling around, pacing across the space of the floor in front of the stairs. Stressed, worrying about the news that the detective was going be delivering to the pair. An absent hand went down Hamish's back to hold onto him a bit better and pull him close his chest. Sherlock finally heard those tell-tale signs of the stairs creaking under weight as the DI ascended.

Lestrade entered a few moments later, the usual clothes on his body that marked he had been at work, probably dropping everything in his haste to get there. "Signing things," Sherlock questioned in a bored tone, getting a frown from the man. There was no usual excitement to at least be deducing something. It was already a heads up that something was wr and he was just putting off telling the news. "Ink on your fingers. From that temperamental pen you use," he added for an explanation.

"Ah." A pause. "Sherlock, you said you would explain what's going on. Now do it."

No nonsense Lestrade. Hamish had perked up a bit to look at Sherlock. Hope was in his eyes that something good was going to come of this bit of news.

"Daddy's not going to be coming home," he said in as level of a voice that he could manage."He got hurt and passed away."

Hamish understood what Sherlock was saying. His eyes were up and on him, the hope slowly fading and drowning away to go somewhere else deep inside him. Merely seconds later the boy began crying. In an attempt to muffle the noise he was drawn closer, face moved to press into the familiar and comforting shoulder of his father. Little arms wrapped around his neck as the wetness grew on his shoulder from those tears.

Upon looking up from tending to his crying boy he noticed that Lestrade was standing there with tense posture that only could be marked down as shock. "I'm going to make tea," the DI said, moving back to the kitchen to get that going. That had always been John's solution to everything, a nice cuppa and it would all be fine. That rarely worked on any occasion it was put into action. Still a comfort.

The noise of someone bustling in the kitchen, getting cups down from their shelves, sugar being brought out milk to make it creamy rather than watery. Somehow the noise soothed Hamish and in the midst of his crying he went to sleep. Sherlock's cheek rested against the top of his boy's head. The warmth that came off him was amazing, reminding him of when Hamish had just been a baby and how that same warmth had put him to sleep when holding his son. None of John's scolding had put an end to that.

Lestrade came back with the tea, two cups and Sherlock's with two sugars and a bit of milk, to the sitting room. The one that was his was set down to the side of him on the little table while the DI hesitated before sitting on the couch. John's chair would have been closer but if the man had dared to sit in it Sherlock would have snapped at last. It was barely nine in the morning and everything had been ruined.

"How did it happen," Lestrade asked cautiously, eyes focused on Sherlock's in the way he focused on a suspect.

The detective's long pale fingers threaded through Hamish's hair out of reflex, needing something to hold onto and play with so he wouldn't go insane. Little ticks from his childhood were coming back with this latest disruption in his life God, he hoped the rocking wouldn't come back; he could deal with fiddling hands as a stim, but not rocking.

"Threw himself over a bomb to protect the people on his team and the civilians around him. They say he didn't feel a thing from the force of the explosion, that if there was any pain he would have only felt it for a moment."

Silence.

It only lasted for minutes until Lestrade broke it again to try to fill it with something other than the pain they were sharing. "I'm so sorry. God, is there anything I can do? ANything I can help with? This is just... awful."

Lestrade ran his fingers through the hair that was completely grey. Another sign of stress in the man's life. Didn't they all feel that?

"No, just, all I need you to do is tell people at the Yard. That and take me from your calling list for difficult cases. You know my methods and, if it comes down to it, you can do it yourself."

It was always serious when Sherlock asked to be taken off of cases. He had done it only a few times in all those years of working with the DI; first when had gone through another withdrawal from drugs right before he and John had met and the man had moved in, the honeymoon of his and John's wedding - John had requested it as a wedding present instead of going out and buying something that would be rarely used -, and finally when they had adopt Hamish for the first two weeks to get used to having a baby around the flat.

He finally reached over, pulling his hand from his son's hair, to grab the tea waiting for him. In the silence he took a sip, eyes slowly closing. The tea tasted exactly how John had made it. Lestrade had learned well how to make it to the standard of excellence.

When it was off of his mouth he said, "Do you think you could leave? I'd like to have some time alone before Hamish wakes back up. If I need anything, I'll text you."

Lestrade was nodding his head, standing and seeming to just want to please. "I'll check on you tomorrow then. Don't do anything stupid." That standard goodbye was given and off the man went, leaving his tea still steaming where he had set it on the coffee table. From below he heard the door close and as soon as the loneliness had set in his head fell down to rest on his son's.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day Sherlock had called in for Hamish to get him out of school before he had woken up, getting the familiar voice of the secretary, Mrs. Lovett, that reacted with sympathy for the news he had to tell her. Hamish could take a week off beginning that day, according to the school's policy for deaths in the family. Then on Wednesday of the next week he would be back in school and his normal routine. He thanked Mrs. Lovett for that - John had taught him when to say those things since getting on the good side of a secretary might help later in Hamish's life, especially if the boy turned out to be more like Sherlock than anyone had anticipated - and hung up.

The little boy was still fast asleep upstairs in his bedroom. Sherlock had managed to get him up for a few hours the day before, then Hamish had started nodding off again. In that time span he had gotten Hamish to eat something, an apple that he had found in the back of the fridge and deemed good enough to eat, drink something, tea to warm him up since he was shaking from cold and shock, and then read him a story as he got tucked in, his favorite that was about a wizard named Harry. Hamish had curled up and drifted off around the time that the letters had started flooding house at Number Four Privet Drive to try to tell the ten-year old that he was a wizard. Hamish already had read all the books and John had gotten the movies so the two could watch them together on a Daddy and Son date, not a Papa and Son one since Sherlock would end up shouting at the telly.

It was noon and Sherlock was just waking up himself, still in the sweats that he had been in since the day before. He was cooking up breakfast for he and Hamish, simple eggs that were cooking up fast, filling the flat with the smell and the sizzling sound of them. The eggs got dished out on two different plates, one for him and one for Hamish, when he heard a stirring from upstairs. In a few moments the sleepy face of the toddler came down, rubbing his eyes tiredly to get the sleep out of them.

"how are you doing," Sherlock questioned as he scooped the little boy up into his arms to press him nice and close to let him know without words that he was there. Without a doubt, Sherlock guessed that his son had to be thinking that his Papa might go as well somewhere that he couldn't follow, like Daddy had. It was a common fear for children that knew loss.

"Alright." The word was mumbled into his chest so that it was muffled and he could barely hear it. Hamish was breathing deeply as if he was breathing in Sherlock's familiar smell and fighting back tears at the same time, just so he would seem like a big boy.

"I made some eggs for us. You need to eat at least half, alright? Then we can do what you want and talk about what all this means now that Daddy's gone."

A sniffle sounded that Sherlock could only take as an okay. The boy stayed in his arms as he got taken to the table, sat down in his usual spot, the one meant for John remaining empty for him as if he would return home at any minute.

In silence the two picked at their food, their tangled masses of hair bent as they ate slowly. Hamish had picked up on Sherlock's eating habit and not John's shoveled in bites that kept going until he got kicked under the table for setting a bad example. It was surprising for some that the rude detective had better table manners than the polite doctor.

Hamish finished first with a bit over half the food gone and settling in his stomach. Sherlock looked up next with his own food slightly completed. He wasn't hungry but knew he had to make a good example for his son so Hamish wouldn't rebel against the half the food eaten rule John had set up once they figured Hamish was old enough to feed himself, which had been around age one and a half. Hamish had matured far faster than they had thought he would. The boy picked up on so much that most his age didn't, more even than people in his class did. John had joked around and called Hamish a mini-Sherlock until he realized Sherlock didn't like it.

"Come on and help me do the dishes. Scrape the food into the trash then bring the dishes to me."

He turned the water on once the plates were in his hand to get the rest of the food off. Hamish watched as Sherlock cleaned, putting the semi-clean dishes in the dishwasher for later. "Now let's get you into the shower," the detective said as he again picked the boy up to take him upstairs to his bathroom.

Sherlock mainly sat outside of the shower on the toilet, waiting for the boy to stick his head out so he could was Hamish's hair. Though Hamish felt he was older than he really was, he wasn't and couldn't do certain things like the other kids in his class could. Once the boy finished and the water was off, Sherlock helped dry him off and dress him.

"Where is it that you want to go," he questioned, walking down the stairs with Hamish trailing behind him while they went to Sherlock's room to go and allow him to get ready. To save time he simply combed the knots out of his hair then dressed in his typical clothes that looked like a larger version of Hamish's. "We could read, watch your favorite show, or-"

"I want to go to a park." Hamish crossed his arms over his chest, giving him a look that said there was no budging him in another direction. "Daddy's park. I want to go to Daddy's park."

All Sherlock could do was give a nod. He was going to have to take Hamish there. "There's no equipment to play on. We could just sit on a bench and talk about things."

Hamish agreed and off they went. Sherlock thought while taking him was about how this was John's job. John had talked about the tough things, the things that were difficult and would make an impact on their lives. His husband had been so much better at those things than he was. John always had known when to do the right comforting gesture or when to say something that dispelled all fear, while Sherlock was a bumbling idiot that made things worse. All he knew was that by the end of this time in the park they were both going to feel worse over things.

The park was quiet considering the time of day. Usually the place was bustling with people looking for some peace and quiet while on their short lunch break. Today it wasn't so. Hamish's tiny had remained in his as they walked through the park towards where John had liked to go. It seemed like the best place for them to go with the subject they'd be pondering.

There was a bench seeming to be waiting for them. Nothing was on it so he went right to it with Hamish having to walk quickly to keep up with him. Sherlock sat, pulling Hamish onto his lap. His eyes darted around the park, gathering up as much as he possibly could of the area surrounding him; there was a couple kissing, a man walking his dog, a couple of moms taking advantage of the nice weather and having a jog while the kids were at school. Those were the little things at he pointed out to his son as they sat together. One arm was around the boy's waist so they were pressed together, back against chest.

"What happened to Daddy?"

Hamish's voice was small, tiny, a just a whisper loud enough so no one passing by would be able to listen in. Sherlock focused in on the wide, deep blue eyes that were asking for answers to his questions that were a bit over his head.

"Daddy saw something that was going to hurt innocent people," Sherlock whispered, "And he didn't want that to happen, so he decided to save him by allowing the thing to take his life instead of theirs."

He couldn't deny how his voice was thinking, how filled with emotion he was. John's death had shaken him more than he would ever have thought. Seven years together married, plus two years split between friendship and dating. Sherlock looked away from his son for a few seconds to calm himself down again so he could stay level through the questioning.

"What was going to hurt people?"

"A thing called a bomb. When it explodes it launches things towards people and hurts them, sometimes kills them," he answered.

"Like it did with Daddy?"

"Yes."

Silence settled between them ag as they started people watching with no real point or purpose to it. Some looked back, feeling self-conscious about someone watching them. Hamish was more of pondering than thinking about everything about the person they saw for only a few seconds. That was more of what Sherlock did. Tearing people apart in his mind was the most therapeutic thing for him to do, as he had learned in his teens.

"Am I going to get another Daddy?"

That innocent and childlike look on Hamish's face threw him off guard. Sherlock stared at the boy blankly for few long minutes. This was when John would have chimed in with a, "Why would you think that?" But Sherlock wasn't John, not in a long shot.

"No," Sherlock said, "I won't get you another Daddy. One day if I find that right person, I may remarry, but you will _never_ have another Daddy unless _you_ want them to be it. I would never make you accept someone as that role in your life unless you want them to."

Hamish had to take a few minutes to wrap his mind around the theory of not having a Daddy. He'd always had one after all but not anymore, not since Papa had told him that Daddy was gone and dead, never coming home. The thought was foreign to him. "But what if I want a Daddy?" The were hysterics creeping into his voice, that he was about to start bawling soon over this. Right away Sherlock's hand move over Hamish's back try to soothe him.

"For now I'm going to be your Papa and your Daddy. I hope that's going to be okay with you. I'm going to be doing the best I can at it, but I know I'll never be like Daddy. Only he can have that job." The hand kept moving up and down, slowly and gently, lightly scratching his back with the movements. "If that's not good enough, there's nothing more I can do about it. You're going to have just me for a long time."

Sherlock already doubted there would be someone else for him in the world. John had been it for him in every sense of the word, and he was fine with thinking that, knowing that from now on he'd be by himself for the most part, especially as Hamish grew up.

They're conversation seemed over so he stood up with the boy in his arms still, simply taking him back to the flat. While walking he acknowledged that he'd need to contact all the people that he had been told specifically to tell if something happened to John, from Mrs. Watson to Harriet, the woman who would probably relapse after all the progress she had done at being sober. Sherlock opened the front door and went up the stairs. Hamish got let down and he took off into the flat so he could find something to do. There was a noise of surprise from the toddler that made Sherlock hurry into the sitting room where Lestrade awkwardly stood, holding a mysterious looking casserole in his hand.

"Just thought I'd stop by and visit. See how you're doing, yeah? And make sure that you're not going hungry."

Sherlock barely nodded his head, not feeling up to saying words that were unneeded.

"Maybe I could watch Hamish for a bit while you do what you need to do?"

That was a thought. "Yeah," the detective murmured, "That'd be good"

The DI immediately snapped to his task and Sherlock went back to his bedroom to make those calls, door securely closed and a hand resting on his forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock turned his mobile over in his hand, dreading all the phone calls he was going to have to make. That urge to just pass it off to someone else was filling him up, but there was no one to pass it off to. He set the phone down on the bed beside him and stood to go and lock the door so no one would be able to come in unless they were tall enough to reach above the door for where he kept the spare key. When he came back, he laid down on the bed with his eyes fixed to the ceiling. John wasn't going to be able to take the responsibility of this off his shoulders again. The messy covers only reminded him that the bed was too large for just himself. He had counted on someone helping him fill it.

From outside the room he heard Lestrade and Hamish talking, laughing, and probably playing who knew what. All he knew was that his boy was having a good time after the serious conversation the two had. Lestrade had to be good with kids since he had three of them himself with that ex-wife the man never talked about anymore. Bad divorce, he knew that much. He'd met the kids once at his and John's wedding but, for the life of him, couldn't remember their names. That was John's job. He listened to his son for a few moments before the mobile was back in his hands and he was dialing Mrs. Watson's number.

The conversation between them felt to drag on for ages. The elderly woman asked after him and Hamish first, checking up on them since she cared for him far more than any family he had to call his own. Finally the talk turned to something else, that being John. Sherlock was the one who got all the information concerning her son and he was the one to pass it along, though he often forgot to. He hesitated before giving that damn news. Minutes of silence passed where they both tried to process the information, then Mrs. Watson been crying. They were horrible, wracking sobs that Sherlock sat though, waiting for them to end though they lasted forever, even longer than the silence before them had. Questions were asked once the woman had calmed down and Sherlock gave the answers. None of them were good, especially when talk came around of where John was going to be buried. He was going to be buried in London, at a little place they had picked out. A plot for John, one for Sherlock, and, if anything happened to Hamish, one for him too.

Feeble goodbye were given and they hung up. Sherlock sighed softly, putting his face in his hands so he could cradle it. It was comfortable, needed, for him at the moment. The noise coming from the living room had grown much louder, so much more annoying. It was a little piece of hell. To try to keep the noise away, he crawled onto the bed further, toeing off his shoes and pulling those already tangled covers over himself. A deep sorrow washed over his body as he lay there in the semi-silence that swallowed him home. Just as silent tears began going down his cheeks, finding that they were wet. It was something he hadn't done in years, probably since he was a teen. There were highs and lows in the noise outside his little cave, something that he just laid and listened to without a care for what might be going on out there. His little moment was needed and he found himself nodding off with tears drying in tracks on his cheeks that couldn't be wiped away with a lazy sweep of his arm.

Some time later he roused from his sleep by the sound of a key turning the lock and then the door opening completely. Bleary eyes followed in the door's suit and took time to focus on who had come in. "Lestrade, what are you doing?" He heard the DI scoff. That really didn't answer his question. The blankets next came from his body, followed by that stream of light that made him groan. "Bloody hell," he muttered as he sat himself up, "Where's Hamish? Did you just leave him out there on his own?"

Another scoff, followed by, "Do you really think I would do that? He may seem older, but he's still four. I put him to sleep in his room for a nap and Mrs. Hudson will watch him for a bit." Lestrade walked from the window to Sherlock and sat beside him. There was a look of pity that Sherlock honestly wanted to smack off. Pity was the worst thing anyone could do for him most learned the hard way. So, in a groggy fashion he moved away from Lestrade, blankets restricting his legs from moving too far away. The DI sighed and swung his legs on the bed with his head against the headboard and hands resting on his stomach as he glanced around the room that the consulting detective slept in.

Sherlock only knew that all this was pissing him off. He wasn't one to curse - Mummy had always told Father when he had and hell had been unleashed on him - but, God, did he want to. Cursing was said to help relieve stress, and he was rather stressed at the moment. "Why are you getting Mrs. Hudson to watch him? You're not leaving this lovely flat so soon, are you," he questioned, deciding not to curse at Lestrade who had to be hurting just as much as he was. But by that smile on the DI's face, he knew that something more was going on. "You're going to take me out, aren't you?" The look on Lestrade's face morphed into a grin as he got up to bring him a moist washcloth so Sherlock could wipe his face clean.

"Still got it, I see," the man remarked as he watched Sherlock meticulously cleaned himself. "I was worried that you weren't going to pick up on my little clues."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. Like could miss the obviousness of them." They both knew ta he almost had, but neither said a word about it. "Now where are you taking me? St. Bart's?"

"No, Scotland Yard. There's a little case I want you to look at."

"And you couldn't have brought it here?"

"Nope."

Sherlock sighed and stood up, going his closet so could put on some fresh clothes instead of going out in the rumpled and slept in ones he was wearing. He didn't change his whole outfit, but just his dress shirt. It was replaced with a black one. He heard Lestrade leave as he buttoned it up and as he shrugged on the suit jacket all over again the man was back and waiting there for him to finish getting ready.

"It's nice out, you know, so you don't need a jacket," the DI said, feet shuffling as he moved aside so Sherlock could pass. Sherlock continued on with the man behind him. "You want a cab or would you rather walk there? Fresh air might do you some good."

"I'd rather take a cab. It'll be faster this time of day than walking. Take my word for it."

There came a sigh from Lestrade but he nodded anyways as they left the flat with a sad smile from Mrs. Hudson who had watched them from where she was sitting in the living room. She was dressed in black as well, showing that she was mourned for John alongside Sherlock and many people who had been fond of him. Lucky for them the press hadn't caught wind just yet of the doctor's death. If they had, there would be no way to leave the flat without police there to keep the people back. He'd give it a few days before getting on John's blog - the only thing that people read - and put something up about it. The dynamic duo, as they had been named, would be no more. A heartbreaking ending to a story that had warmed hearts of many. He would be mourning along with people John had touched without ever meeting them.

Sherlock hung back with his arms over his chest while Lestrade hailed them a cab. He got in with Lestrade, the DI holding the door open for him, and leaned back as their destination was given and they sped off down the mainly empty street. People were in their offices, not out on the town. He looked out the window at the few people who were still outside; it was about the same as earlier, young couples, parents that didn't work, a few teens that looked like they were skipping classes. They all walked near each other, never really seeing the other. It was quite amazing to see just how much it seemed people had stopped caring about their fellow-man in these modern times.

The driver stopped in front of the Yard and Sherlock looked out the window at the building he went to often enough over the course of what had to be thirty years, more than that now he was sure. Perhaps even pushing forty. Sometimes he forgot that he was in his fifties, not thirty-six as he had been when he had met John down in the morgue. It was amazing to think that it had been fourteen years since they had met; two years of friendship, three years for his "death", two for dating, and seven for marriage. Eleven years with John no matter what way he looked at it. Lestrade nudged him, a worried look on his face that Sherlock responded to with a hand up to try to brush off Lestrade. He didn't want pity and he didn't want anyone worrying about him in his current state.

Sherlock got out and slowly trailed behind Lestrade that led the consulting detective in. "I told everyone. They might treat you a bit different," Lestrade said. Soon he discovered that it was an understatement. Donovan was there and she merely gave him a sad look, not the customary greeting of, "Oh, look, the freak's here." Anderson couldn't say anything either. He couldn't even meet his gaze for more than a few seconds. Did he really look that bad? The most washing he had done that day was when Lestrade had handed him that washcloth. Clothes had to be a bit wrinkled. Eyes either bloodshot or abnormally bright from his crying as well. At least he could understand their looks of sympathy. Didn't make him like it any, still.

He was taken into a room, a conference room from the look of it, and the door shut behind him so that he and Lestrade were alone in the windowless room. On the table was a simple case file. The pages were yellowing and it smelled of dust when he started flipping through it. Not to mention the pictures of the crime scene looked awful considering the quality of pictures that could be just taken by a mobile these days. All in a he could tell it was a case that had long gone cold. He didn't even have to look at the date stamped on it to know what it was. Lestrade had picked it out for him just so he wouldn't lose his sanity over thinking the things that he was facing now.

"So, are you going to take it," Lestrade asked, leaning back in his chair with his eyebrows raised expectantly as Sherlock continued flipping through the file that did seem a bit interesting, occasionally glancing up to the man. "I'd around really like it if you could. Been sitting around since I became detective inspector all those years ago. Be a help if I got justice after a good thirty years."

Lestrade knew Sherlock had said no cases but it would seemed that it was going to change. "Fine," the consulting detective huffed as he sat down and started spreading out all the things for himself to look at while he did this damn thing. He really wanted to smack that look from Lestrade's face, even more than before, but the case was more important. The world faded away as he sank into his mind, figuring this simple mystery. In the end he had come to one conclusion that made sense with all the data before him.

"Father did it. Angry with marrying someone he didn't approve of so he decided to give her a good lesson and it got out of hand." Sherlock pushed the case towards the center of the long table with a smug look of his own set on his face.

The DI seemed to test someone, probably a man on duty, to go and arrest the suspected killer as well as the information they would need to question him. That action took a few moments since as the technology changed, Lestrade just seemed to get worse at it.

"Alright, Sunshine. Have you eaten today? You know what? I really don't want to know. How about Angelo's, on me?

* * *

A/N

Alright, I tried AO3, but it didn't work. So I'm back and this is my newest update for this lovely fanfiction.


	4. Chapter 4

Angelo had died long ago, but his son ran it and still gave Sherlock a bit of a discount when he came in, especially if he brought the family along with him. So, needless to say, he went often enough to get Hamish a meal that he didn't have to cook or pay for himself.

"Yeah, that sounds fine," Sherlock said, ignoring the name Lestrade had just called him. He wasn't fond of nicknames and the only person who could call him things other than his name was John. Anyone else would get snapped at if he was in the right kind of mood for doing something like that. "Let's get going. Tell Anderson and Donovan when you get some time, to act normally. I'd rather them shout abuse at me then not even look me in the eyes."

Lestrade shook his head as he got up from the chair, groaning as he popped his back with a mutter of how old he was. "You know they're just showing their respect for you, right? Everyone liked John around here and nobody's happy to hear that he won't be coming back this time around. You're just going to have to put up with it. At least try to play the part of a normal grieving husband."

Sherlock's jaw tensed and he gave a good punch to the DI's arm. "I am a grieving husband, I'm just doing it in my way. There's no right or wrong way to grieve, just how others stereotype it naturally. Now, if you would excuse me, I'm going back to my flat so I can watch after my son." He shoved past the man, crossing his arms over his chest and storming from the room, past officers that all seemed to know what was going on in his personal life. He could hear steady footsteps behind him, following him, as he left the Yard. He stood by the street, eyes scanning for a cab, when Lestrade came to stand by him, running his tongue over his lips in that nervous tick the man had for the longest time.

"I shouldn't have said that, so I'm sorry that I did. Everything for given Sherlock?" The consulting detective looked over to the man standing beside him, running a sharp eye over Lestrade's body as if examining him to judge him of his worthiness.

"Fine. Now hail us a cab so we can get going to Angelo's. Wouldn't want to miss getting a free meal since I'm not cooking anytime soon." Lestrade chuckled and took a step forward so he was on the curb, hand raised in the international sign to get a cab. One stopped in front of them by the free space of the curb, and Lestrade, being ever polite, opened the door so Sherlock could get in before getting in himself. Sherlock gave the address once they were both settled and off they went, him leaning back into the seat. The path was familiar and he knew each turn that they went down on the streets of London. Lestrade hummed some tune under his breath as the cabbie drove. Within a minute's time they were there and Lestrade got out to hold open the door for Sherlock so he could slide out.

Ahead of the DI, the consulting detective strode, heading straight for the restaurant. the smell of food and the warm atmosphere hadn't changed from the first time he had been inside. Sherlock saw a familiar waiter and put his hand up to signal them for a greeting and then pointed to the table by the window. It was the one that he always took and even forced people already eating there to move so he could eat there himself. It was a habit of his to keep doing the same thing over and over, including sitting at the same place. He smiled a little as he settled into his usual side while Lestrade slid in the one opposite him. There was silence at the table while the waiter got some water for them. Within a few moments the current owner, Andrea, came over with a large smile on his round face.

"And look who we have here! Mr. Holmes and a friend. No son with you tonight? Don't blame you, sometimes a man needs a break from family." His words got interrupted by a deep, honest, laugh, that came from the pit of his large stomach. "But don't worry. I'll have the kitchen whip something up for your little tyke. His usual, right? I'll bring it out for you when you're all done here. And you, Sherlock? What is it I can get you? Usual sound fine? We got a fresh shipment of vegetables yesterday and I'm sure the lasagna will taste amazing! And your friend, what can I get or him?"

Lestrade only had wide eyes as he looked at Andrea, clearly taken aback from the fast speech the man had given. "Oh. I'll have some chicken alfredo," he said, resituating himself on the seat with one leg over the other.

"No, no! The cook we have in tonight is awful at making that. I _cannot_ allow you to put yourself through that experience with a meal like that. Now, how does spaghetti bolognese sound to you? Good? Good! One vegetarian lasagna and one spaghetti bolognese. Add on to ta a children's order of our homemade beef and cheese ravioli for our little Hamish. It's going good tonight. The ravioli's are one of the few things the cook can make." Andrea laughed his booming laugh then walked off to go and give whoever this cook was the order to make.

Lestrade was silent for a few moments before nervously laughing. "He likes to talk, doesn't he? Never lets a man get another word in. At least I like spaghetti bolognese."

"Not as bad as Angelo. Well talked as much as him, but Andrea's less huggy, luckily." One good telling from Sherlock when the man had been younger, just another waiter in the crowd, had gotten him to stop that overly fond habit he had caught on from his father. "The food will be on the house so don't try to pay him. Tip him, yes, but don't try to give money for the food." John had tried on multiple occasions and it always ended with a semi-playful and semi-serious from whoever was serving them.

The DI merely nodded his head he focused on the street outside. Now it was bustling, really getting moving, out there. People were getting off work and some were making their way to their night jobs. Everyone looked ahead, not paying attention to the pair at the window watching them.

"Hamish misses John. He told me that but doesn't want to tell you. He's afraid that something's going to happen to you next. Sherlock, you really need to tell him you're going to be there. He doesn't have a solid knowledge that you're going to stay around with him," Lestrade said softly. He was trying not to speak too loudly if someone around them would hear and recognize that the world-famous Sherlock Holmes was in this little Italian restaurant. It wasn't time for it to get out about John.

"I'll talk to him about it tomorrow. When I get home I just want some time alone."

Lestrade shook his head, leaning forward so they could speak more intimately. "No, you've got to talk to him about all this _now_, not later. The longer you wait, the worse it's going to get and the less he's going to believe you when you actually tell him." The man's eyes flickered over Sherlock's for a few moments. "You know it."

"Tomorrow. By the time we get back it'll be late. Hamish will probably already be asleep up in his bedroom. Waking him would ruin his sleeping schedule, not to mention keep him up for the night. And I think him waiting to hear it would be ten times better than messing him up for days."

There was a look of disapproval on the man's face. By now the consulting detective was used to getting it. "And what about the years of psychological damage that not knowing the small fact of your permanency with him? Psychological damage is the worst. I'm sure you know that. You really need to tell him, and in person, not calling him up and hoping for the best."

Well that shot his plan to hell. Sherlock's fingers tangled through his messy curls as he pushed his hand through his hair. The curls tangled around his fingers, snagging them when he just wanted to not worry about the way his hair felt or how it probably looked like he hadn't showered for the day. Without bothering to push his fingers the rest of the way through, he just withdrew it and let his hand fall limp in his lap. "Yes, yes. I'll tell him. If he's up I'll do it tonight, but if not, it'll happen tomorrow. Happy?"

"Not unless you actually do it." Lestrade was leaning back, hand over his brow. The two men were stubborn on what they wanted to happen, meaning that neither party would make the other happy. "But, whatever. Not like I'm a parent to three children that were all once as small as Hamish and thought the same way about things that he does about death and the way that things that were thought to be permanent, really aren't. Take my word or leave it."

"You sound like a bloody child psychologist. Still remember those things you went to your counsellor about, then? Wait, don't answer that. A rhetorical question after all." He was leaning back as well against the plush booths, hand over his own brow that he dropped in favor of watching the streets. "I'll talk to him when I get to it. You don't have any say in the matter at hand. You're really just an outsider."

The DI's jaw clenched but before he could retaliate the steaming food was brought out to them. One plate of the lasagna with a cheese sauce. He could see the broccoli, carrots, and spinach in it, that was main vegetables shown and advertised. It was set in front of him while Lestrade's meal was set down as well. There was a mound of pasta on it with the red sauce that reeked of fresh tomatoes and seasoning, a couple meatballs off to the side of the plate. "The ravioli will be out when you're both done," Andrea said, beaming; he always brought the food out himself when Sherlock Holmes was dining with them. "Tell John hello for me. I haven't heard you talk about him much. Letters must not be coming through, then. Just tell him not to forget about us here in London while he's off in Afghanistan. I expect him to not act like a stranger once he gets back."

As Andrea left he got a big clap on the back from him that barely registered because of how numb he suddenly felt. If he had been at all hungry before, all thoughts of food were out of his head. With Andrea gone he quietly excused himself from the table and walked back to the men's restroom. One person was in it using the urinal and he just passed him, heading straight to the stall, the large one meant for people who needed the extra room. And he needed room. Sherlock locked the stall door and waited until he heard the only other man in the room with him leave so he could sit on the ground, hands against his face. The reality was seeping in again that John was gone and this wasn't any other day like Lestrade had made it out to be with that damn case. He had forgotten that barely a day had passed since the news had gotten to him. Tomorrow he would have to start the process for the funeral that would have to happen sooner or later.

From outside his little world the door to the bathroom opened and closed, the sound of the lock clicking into place. Slow footsteps walked through the room until they stopped in front of his stall. Three slow knocks sounded with a, "Open up Sherlock. Sitting on the ground is going to do you no good. Food's outside waiting at the table and I don't want to eat alone. I'm pretty sure Andrea'll come out and talk to me again all about the shit cook he has." The man laughed at his own little joke while Sherlock did unlock the door for him. With one hand Lestrade pushed it on open to see Sherlock still on the ground but only have moved closer so he could unlock the damn door to stop the DI's pestering.

"If you want me up, you're picking me up," Sherlock teased, mustering up a smile to try and not let the thing fall flat. He got a look from Lestrade that seemed examining, like the man was judging him like one would judge a child tell a great lie about something, considerate yet with a hint of disbelief. In a few more moments hands we under his armpits and hoisting him up to a standing position.

"You really have to put on some weight," Lestrade muttered, letting go of Sherlock now that he was up. "So, let's go out and get you that lasagna."

But Sherlock didn't move. He stood there and looked at Lestrade before putting his arms around the man's neck and hugging him. John had taught him back when they were first dating that hugging was something appropriate to do when grateful for something and the person was friends with him. And he was grateful for Lestrade. So he didn't want to use words and this was the best way in his opinion. When he pulled back after the appropriate amount of time he smiled curtly and passed the pan as he left the stall to go to the table. Sure enough the food was still there and he sat at the table, picking his for up and taking a small bite.

The pasta was soft and the sauce as creamy as always. Vegetables were definitely fresh from the crunch the broccoli still had. Sherlock allowed a small sigh of pleasure to leave him over the food he always had enjoyed. It really was one of the better things the cook made. Lestrade was back a few minutes later and fell upon his own food. Was he even tasting it? Part of Sherlock's mind doubted it from how fast the man was chewing. Under the tale he placed a well-aimed kick to Lestrade's shins, causing him to yelp and lean down to hold his shin.

"What the hell was that for," Lestrade angrily asked, food now forgotten. "I wasn't doing anything wrong Am I not allowed to eat now?" There was a half-joking tone to the man's voice but anger shone in his eyes. Sherlock wasn't upset over seeing it.

"Well, Lestrade-"

"You know you can call me Greg. I think we should be past the point where you just call me by my last name after all these years."

"Well, _Greg_, you're eating so fast. Looks was my way of telling you to slow it down. So, slow down and stop shoveling in food like it's your last meal because you resemble a pig when you do it."

Lestrade... _Greg_, gave him a look but did listen. Sherlock went back to eating, counting his bites up to the proper thirty-two that someone should do before swallowing the mush down. Thirty-two bites made the food easier to break down further in the stomach and allowed him to get all the lovely taste from it. His parents, being ever so prim and proper, had taught him that it was the right way to eat and it had just stuck in his mind over the years. The nice thing about this method was that he got full quickly and stopped when he was done. As usual that was around the halfway point and he pushed away his plate when that happened.

Greg finished his plate and sat back, groaning with his hands on his stomach to show he had overeaten. That was what eating slowly prevented; you felt yourself getting full and not it hitting you and it being too late. One day people were going to see the good in his ways and follow in his lead.

The water that had seated them came over with one takeout box full of ravioli that would last Hamish for a day and an empty box he could use to put the rest of his food in. Sherlock did just that then their plates were cleared. A wave from Andrea let them know they could just go ahead and go. Before leaving Lestrade put down a few pounds for the tip.

They walked together from the restaurant, Sherlock carrying the food and not getting a cab. Part of the reason was so Lestrade could work off a bit of the food he had eaten, resulting in Sherlock getting annoyed at their slow pace. It was nice and dark, traffic slowing down more, by the time they were in front of 221B.

"You talk to him, Sherlock," the DI said, "Try to fix the things you need to. Alright?" Greg gave him a small smile before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning on his heel to walk off. That left Sherlock standing out front with his eyes following the older man as he just left. When Greg was out of sight he turned and opened the door, heading up the stairs to a flat that just felt far too quiet. He pushed open the door to see Mrs. Hudson standing there. She must have heard him coming up.

"He wouldn't go up to his room," she started, voice hushed. "Stubborn as you are. Lord help us all if keeps up that streak. But he wouldn't go to sleep in his room. I tried multiple times but he just wouldn't."

"Where is he Mrs. Hudson?"

"Your room. You can try to move him, but he wouldn't listen to me."

Sherlock let out a soft sigh and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "It's all fine, Mrs. Hudson. Go downstairs and have your herbal soother. I'll take care of it." The woman smiled and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek as well, hand coming up to pat his other one. He smiled at her before walking back towards his room, stopping in the kitchen to put away the food.

Right in the center of his bed was the small figure of the boy. Compared to the size of the bed alone, Hamish was so very tiny. The toddler hadn't even gotten changed out of his clothes he'd been wearing the day. Sherlock sighed as he walked towards the bed. When he climbed on next to John he began taking off the clothes, starting first with the shoes then up to the shirt and pants. He had to stand up and get out a shirt, one of John's so Hamish might have a bit of comfort, for the boy to sleep in. Sherlock went back to the clothes Hamish was in, carefully handling him so he wouldn't wake him. When he was finished the shirt was put on him and, in the end, Hamish still was fast asleep or at least pretending nicely. Sherlock laid on the bed slowly, turning on his side and began rubbing the boy's back, closing his eyes as he settled into a gentle rhythm.


	5. Chapter 5

The slow hand continued to work up and down his son's back as Sherlock began to drift off to sleep. Slower and slower it went until he soon stopped and turned to his side, draping an arm around Hamish's small waist to draw him closer. Finally, his eyes slipped shut as he fell into a light sleep. It was usual for him to fall into that kind of sleep so he could wake up to hearing anything for when something were to happen. This time he woke up to a very soft whisper of the word, "Papa."

Automatically, his eyes opened, tired and icy colored ones meeting the deep blue ones gazing up at him in the semi-darkness. Dawn was creeping into the room, brightening it with natural light that was only growing more intense by the moment. "What is it Hamish," he asked, moving his hand to run through the mess of dark hair scattered over the top of the boy's head. "Did you have a bad dream? You can tell me all about it."

Bad dreams were common for Hamish to wake up to and his assumption was only confirmed when Hamish's face turned pink and scrunched up as he began to cry softly. Sherlock's arms went around the boy, drawing him close until he felt a bit of wetness against the clothing on his stomach. Not a bad dream then.

It had been ages since Hamish had wet the bed. He sighed softly and got up from the bed with the boy in his arms still. The evidence was there, a large wet spot where his son had laid. "Come on," he whispered into his son's ear, "Let's get you all cleaned up. Next time tell me if you have to go. I'll take you there if you really have to so you don't have an accident like this again."

Sherlock carried out of his room and up the stairs to the boy's room. "You get yourself changed and bring down your clothes so I can put them in the wash with the sheets." On a second thought he pressed a kiss to the top of the boy's head. John had told him to do that so Hamish wouldn't think he was upset with him for having a silly little accident.

After running his thumb and index finger over the soft skin of his son's cheek to get off the tears before they stained his face, he was gone from the room to his own to check the damage done. Only the sheets and comforter needed to get really cleaned, but he would have to do something more to the bed so it wouldn't smell like urine. The bed got stripped, wet things in one pile and dry in another. He changed clothes so the damp ones wouldn't be touching his skin. While in the bathroom he found the cleaner that John had bought for accidents like this.

When he came out with the large bottle and a rag to clean, he saw Hamish standing there, clothes bundled in his arms. He had gotten redressed in some new clothes that were going to get damp as well if he kept holding the wet ones so close to himself.

"You can put them over there," Sherlock said, motioning with the rag towards the wet pile. He climbed on the bed, pouring a bit of cleaner on the rag before pressing it on the mattress and scrubbing. There was a plop from the clothes landing heavily on the pile.

"I'm sorry," the little boy whispered, catching Sherlock's eyes when the man glanced over at him. "I-I di-didn't mea-mean to." And soon Hamish was crying again, face quickly turning pink with his cheeks turning red from him angrily scrubbing at them.

The rag became abandoned on the bed as Sherlock went to him, kneeling in front of the boy to make those tiny hands lower from his eyes so he could try to soothe him like John had always been able to do. "Accidents happen," Sherlock said simply. "I'm not mad at you at all. Now stop crying since there's nothing to cry about. I'll finish cleaning up the bed and then make some breakfast. I went to Angelo's last night, brought you home ravioli from him, beef and cheese. Your favorite, remember? How does that sound?"

As Sherlock's thumb ran over the boy's warm cheeks, Hamish calmed enough so that was just sniffling with hiccups slipping out occasionally. "You go into the kitchen. I'm going to have to going to have to go out today you're going to be with Mrs. Hudson again." Sherlock paused then added, "I just want you to know I'm going to leave later."

Arms went around his neck moments later, clinging to him tight enough so there was no way for him to get free from them. Hamish's face was hidden in his neck and every so often his back moved sharply from a hiccup. They grew frequent, just as they did when Hamish was getting stressed over something. There was no way to get him to calm down now that he was this worked up. So, he stood with the boy held up by one arm, moving him in a way that allowed him to balance on his hip and keep his face hidden away.

Sherlock used one arm to clean after getting up on the bed again, scrubbing as hard as humanly possible. The smell of urine was gone after a few minutes, replaced with the clean smell of detergent. He dropped the rag to the bed and let arm fall flat to his side. It had tired and all he wanted was to lay and rest some. It wasn't even six in the morning yet and he was dead tired. A lovely start to the day that would that would leave him as emotionally and physically drained as he had been the day before.

His head turned, pursing his lips so he could press a quick kiss to the side of Hamish's head. Hiccups were gone and that meant the boy had hopefully calmed himself down some just from the silence and the feeling of being nice and close to someone. The two were similar in that way; Sherlock always could calm down if someone was at least touching him so he would know someone was there.

"Come on. Time to let go of me so I can start the laundry and get your food ready. Andrea packed it really full this time because he knows how much you love them, so I hope you're hungry," he whispered.

A small shake of Hamish's head was the only response he got to his words. The arms tightened around his neck all over again.

"Hamish." His voice grew stern to show he wasn't kidding around with this. "Let go of me. There are things that I need to do and you're just inhibiting me. Now, let go or I'll have to make you."

Of course he wasn't going to do anything harmful - he believed children shouldn't be hit, for it made them afraid of the parent, not the punishment itself - but he did have a trick ready for Hamish. Again, the arms tightened around his neck, successfully cutting off the air and making him gasp for a moment. "You're asking for it," he growling, smiling to signal that he wasn't actually going to do any harm. One arm supported Hamish's bum while the other came up to gently tickle his side. The boy squirmed but didn't let go. It wasn't until Sherlock was going about full power that he used on John when he was being stubborn that Hamish pulled off, giggling and squirming like the happy boy he was.

Sherlock laughed along with him a pressed a loving kiss to his cheek. "Was that really so hard to do?" He lowered his son to the ground then picked up the laundry he was going to do. "Come with me. I'll heat you up some food." Hamish's held on to the hem of his shirt with a small hand as Sherlock walked like he said he was going to.

The washer and dryer was in the kitchen, therefore Hamish let go to sit in his spot while Sherlock went ahead and put everything in. On top of the seat, Hamish glanced around, eyes always ending up on his father. The man busied himself with the machine he'd rather take apart than figure out how to use. It eventually got going with the clothes spinning in a circle with a calming mechanical hum filling the room.

"I'll make half for you," he stated, pulling out the heavy box from where he had put it in the fridge the night before. "Mrs. Hudson can make lunch for you and then I'll get the rest of this made for dinner. I want you to eat all that I make for you, okay?"

He got a small nod out of the boy which he took an alright to his minimal negotiations. With a fork he got the food and put it on a plate that could be microwaved; apparently there were ones that couldn't and after training from John he had learned which was which. The latest experiment housed in there got placed on the shelf designated for them the fridge and he put a couple of minutes on the timer for the food, then let it go.

Next to Hamish, he sat down and looked at the who still didn't look one hundred percent well. "Do you want to tell me what's going on? I want to help you and you need to tell me exactly what to do so I don't make a mistake." That had happened more than once for them. Now they had no one to help solve the little arguments they got into, so it was all up to him to keep the peace. "Lestrade, Daddy's friend who played with you yesterday, told me that you're afraid I'm going to leave you. Is that true?"

For a few moments Hamish's bottom lip quivered, then came the waterworks. No words came out, just the boy nodding his head as he cried uncontrollably, facial expressions screaming that he just wanted to stop, but he couldn't. Sherlock leaned forward automatically, ending up on his knees in front of his son so he would be at his level as he cupped the boy's face in both hands.

"I'll never leave you. Your Papa will always be here for you no matter what. Daddy would have wanted to as well, but it didn't turn out that way." It took him a few moments to calm himself down as he thought of what John would say in this situation. Softly he spoke so Hamish would have to lean in to really hear him when the words came to him, "Somewhere Daddy's watching us. He's sitting around to see you and me, and make sure that we're okay here. He'd want to see us happy, wouldn't he?" That got him a small head nod. "So," he murmured, shuffling closer on his knees and brushing the tears off those pink cheeks, "Whenever you feel alone or sad, remember Daddy's watching you because he loves you so very much. Can you do that for me?"

Another head nod. Sherlock removed his hands and gave Hamish a sincere look as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "I'm here, too. I'll always be here to listen to you."

He stood up with a soft noise as a few joints popped, making Hamish giggle. Sometimes he thought he was getting a bit too old for all this, then he remembered he had years left of running around after the little tyke, as Andrea called him, who really was only interested in eating at the moment.

The food finished heating up and he brought it over to him, setting it down with a napkin going over the boy's lap so no more laundry would have to get done than there already was. Hamish gripped the provided fork tightly in his hand, munching happily and slowly on his food. Sauce leaked out to the corners of his mouth and a bit hit his chin from the angle he was putting the food in his mouth. When finished, just as he had promised with nothing left on the plate, there was sauce everywhere on his skin except for the hair. Food in his hair had been more during the stage of learning out to feed himself in general. He was definitely going to have to take a shower now.

He brought the dish to the sink and set it in there to do later no matter how much he despised dishes. "You remember how I said you were going to spend time with Mrs. Hudson this afternoon? I changed my mind and you're coming with me. We're going to see a man about Daddy's will."

"What's a will?"

Hamish had wide eyes and Sherlock could help but smile at the first words he had said for the day. Hearing him speak and sound okay was a good thing. What he had said had done the job in making his son feel good about the things going on and comfortable enough to ask questions about it.

"A will is a document that people who are older make. It says what we're going to get of Daddy's things including money and his personal belongings. It's a legal document that has to be followed through with or else we could get in big trouble over not following what he wanted," he explained. "It's like what Dumbledore left for Harry, Ron, and Hermione after he died."

Understandingly, Hamish nodded. Sherlock would have to call the man before they left to explain why there were going to be coming in. While the went upstairs to get Hamish cleaned up, phone in hand to actually make the call, he flipped through the things to do; there was the funeral - private - and the possible memorial for the public, the will and contacting people who got things, publicly stating John's death, insurance, payment from the military, health benefits from St. Bart's, and money to sort out. He was feeling stressed by the time Hamish was out of the shower. Again he kneeled on the ground and helped his son dry off, getting a wet kiss on the lips from him right when he needed it most.

Hamish got himself dressed and ready while Sherlock stayed in the bathroom to make the call privately. Their lawyer held it in a file and was very well-trained in keeping things secretive seeing that he was more for celebrities and could be held legally accountable for telling anyone about what was going on. John had picked him out for them and it was a good choice seeing that the man, Mr. Boris Addison, was very good at keeping things private.

Sherlock walked out and saw his son having a bit of problems with his clothes and went over to him to help tug down the oatmeal colored jumper Mrs. Watson had made him last Christmas over his head and get the button on for his black slacks. The combination was so perfect to Sherlock that it made his heart ache and chest tighten over the thought that John wouldn't be able to see this. His eyes focused more on Hamish a few moments later, catching the pout and the book now in his hands. He pieced together that Hamish wanted him to read just a bit more of Harry Potter to him.

He sat on the bed, Hamish following to settle on his lap. The spine cracked as they opened it and Sherlock, honestly wishing he had thought to get his reading glasses, began voicing the characters on the page, doing his best to change his voice when someone else spoke to keep his son engaged in the book as they bonded well into the morning.

* * *

Note:

Sorry for the delay on this! It was being stubborn with uploading.

I've move over to AO3. I WILL NOT be uploading here again so please look at my profile for a link to it. I've had enough with the difficulties of this website.


	6. Update

I have officially moved to AO3. Please look there for updates and the link is now on my profile. I promise to stay there this time.


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